


Stories off Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber

by Yitian



Category: Heaven Sword and Dragon Sabre 2019 (倚天屠龙记/Yi Tian Tu Long Ji)
Genre: Angst, F/M, HSDS, Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber - Freeform, Humor, One-Shots, Romance, Zhaomin/ZhangWuji, 倚天屠龙记 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-12-07 01:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18228215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yitian/pseuds/Yitian
Summary: A collection of one-shots centered around my 30 year obsession with Heaven Sword Dragon Saber OTP Zhaomin/ZhangWuji.   Triggered by the latest drama adaptation (and by some count the 12th book-to-screen translation) of Jinyong's classic story "Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber."This 3rd book in the most famous Wuxia series of all time ("The Condor Heroes trilogy") has been my personal favorite wuxia story ever since Hong Kong produced their 1986 TV series starring the charismatic Tony Leung (who went on later in life to win a Cannes Best Actor award) and the inimitable Kitty Lai.Each chapter is a stand-alone based on some scene in the story.  Welcome to my (and my anonymous co-writer/beta's) HSDS!1. Snake Island2. Red Wedding3. The Boat4. Good Days5. The Art of Storytelling6. Shame





	1. Snake Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered what went on in Wuji's head in the aftermath of Zhaomin's kamikaze tactics and then subsequent disappearance, here's one vision of that.
> 
> This work evolved and grew up a lot under the watchful (and nurturing) eye of my beta- so yay for awesome beta's! :)

_She is exquisite: A swirling, flying vision in white, a blur of sophisticated swordplay. The Yitian sword flashes in the sun as she blocks and parries, attacks and dodges._

_Wuji feels a surge of pride and hope. What Zhaomin lacks in internal power she makes up for in speed and cunning.  
_

_But it is not enough._

_Their numbers are overwhelming, their tactics too different from Han martial arts._

_Then he is immobilized and she is trapped by one of the three key Persian emissaries, her left arm arm-locked behind her._

_Time slows down._

_Wuji watches as Zhaomin’s eyes dilate in shock and fear, as the two other emissaries fly at them._

_He can see, each moment a thousand moments, the point at which she makes up her mind._

_A flare of her nostrils, a tightening of her lips, the desperate determination as her eyes seek his._

_At first he doesn’t understand- there is literally nothing she can do. Their gazes connect an infinite moment._

_Then she reverses her grip on Yitian over in her right hand, so that it is facing herself, and starts the long, slow arc toward her own stomach._

_He can feel, can taste, the despair, the desperation, the moment he identifies the move she is executing. It is, ironically, a Wudang move she picked up at WanAn from his Uncles._

_His lips start to shape “No….” His anxiety spikes an order of magnitude. In his mind’s eye he understands where this is going: The emissary is using Zhaomin as a shield. Zhaomin has decided that she is willing to sacrifice herself to buy him a chance.  She will take out the key emissary behind her by piercing at the emissary through her own body._

_He will not let it happen._

_Will._

_Not!_

_So focused is he on Zhaomin he barely notices as his Nine-Yang reacts to his extreme duress and bursts through the immobilizing lock._

_But Zhaomin is fast, and her chosen kamikaze move, designed to take an opponent by surprise, makes her faster yet. Wuji, even with all the force of Nine-Yang, cannot deflect her sword entirely. He slams past the flying emissaries and arrives in time to nick Yitian, nudge it a bare inch, enough, he hopes to spare her main arteries but still it pierces her._

_He can feel, as if it were his own flesh, the tear, the cold fire, the agony of steel ripping through bone and muscle. He can feel the scream of her name ripping out of his own throat._

_He can see, her hand, steady in spite of extreme pain, continue to push the sword, through her self, through her center. Inch by insane inch. Time dilates to let Wuji feel every determined movement._

_Zhaomin’s eyes have not left Wuji’s. Incongruously Zhaomin smiles at him, and a bubble of laughter and blood escapes her lips._

_It is, impossibly, exactly like something Zhaomin would do: Laugh at a moment like this._

_Wuji forces himself to move faster, as if by sheer will he can move so fast that he turns back the clock, reverses the horror. He reaches out to touch her, and time suddenly flows again._

_In rapid succession, the emissary behind her collapses, Zhaomin starts to sink to her knees even as Wuji catches her. Her bloody hands grasp at the gushing, oh-so-rapidly gushing, wound in her middle._

_Wuji’s terror, unabated, rises and lashes out with a ferocity he never knew he was capable of. In an angry haze he threatens the Persian army with the life of the emissary on the ground, he barely notices as they retreat. All he can feel, as if from his own body, is each heartbeat pumping a little more life out of Zhaomin._

_No!_

_All he can see is the drain of color from her face, her hands now a ghostly white against the vermillion liquid._

_No!_

_When she can no long stay on her feet even supported, he picks her up. She is horribly light, far, far too light._

_No!_

 

* * *

 

And with a jolt Wuji is suddenly in bed, sweat-drenched. His head feels like lead, his body trembles with the terror of the nightmare. He can still feel the sticky, rapidly cooling blood all over his hands.

 

Then he remembers, and the hurt and anger return to displace the terror.

 

It has been weeks since the confrontation with the Persians.

 

Weeks since Zhaomin poisoned them, killed Yinli, stole the swords and left on their only boat.

 

Weeks, and still every night, tossing and turning next to his Yifu, he is haunted by nightmares where Zhaomin, mute to the end, dies to save his life.

 

Weeks, and still every day he cannot shut out a strange, exasperated voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Zhaomin.

 

He is newly betrothed to Zhiruo.

 

_“Idiot.” The voice in his head chimes unhelpfully._

_Shut up!_

 

Yifu pointed out that Zhirou’s life depends on his intimate healing help, and being betrothed to her first was the Right Thing To Do.

 

He hesitated a moment too long, and Zhirou declared she would rather die than force him. “If it were Miss Zhao who needed help, I’m sure you would marry her today and tonight you would…”

 

After that, there really wasn't any way Wuji could demur further.

 

He reminds himself that Zhiruo has been nothing but kind to him since they met as children.

 

_And Zhaomin has deceived me over and over._

 

Still, he hesitates even longer when Zhirou demands he vow to kill Zhaomin in vengeance.

 

_“Ha! As if you could catch me if I didn’t want you to! As if I would do anything so stupid in the first place!”_

 

_Shut up!_

Yifu’s and Zhiruo’s angry voices are louder, and some combination of guilt and anger drives him to make the vow- although he manages to add, “if Zhaomin is responsible” at the end.

 

Yinli is dead. Yifu and Zhirou are not fully recovered from their injuries. Xiaozhao is exiled. They have lost both the sword and saber. All that, and what haunts his dreams, night after panicked night, is the moment that Zhaomin, the murderer of his cousin, nearly commits suicide to save him.

 

It just doesn’t make any sense to him.

 

_Why? Why would she sacrifice herself for me and then betray us?_

 

_“Why, do you think?”_

 

He cannot speak of his dreams or the voice to Yifu or Zhiruo for guilt. He makes excuses for himself:

_It is the poison messing with my mind._

_It was the blood, so visceral, so traumatic._

_It is because I want to avenge Yinli myself._

 

_“Keep telling yourself that.”_

 

But he cannot shake the dreams, the voice, the unanswered questions, nor the grip of worry.

 

When no one else is around, he interrogates the broken golden box.

 

_She’s a princess, not a sailor. How would she know how to pilot the damned boat? For heaven’s sakes, she couldn’t even move it from the beach!_

_She doesn’t know the first thing about changing bandages! How could she leave without my herbs to keep the wound from getting infected?_

_She didn’t even bring any water with her!_

(He had discretely checked all the water containers they have. All are accounted for.)

_And why, why did she kill the defenseless Yinli?_

 

_“Idiot! Do I seem stupid to you? Did you see me do all that? Then shut up and just stay alive!”_

 

* * *

 

 

He goes daily to the beach- his excuse is to look for passing ships.

 

But when he nears the beach, he is watching for wreckage. He knows he is here for the minuscule chance that there is a tiny figure in white, washed back up to shore from the storms that are so common out in these waters.  

 

It may be her only chance of surviving.

 

* * *

 

 

One day Zhiruo finds the box, and Yifu makes him throw it away.

 

It is unexpectedly wrenching to watch the twin golden specks fly, along with his promise to her to repair the box, into the ocean.

 

Wuji takes a moment to appreciate the metaphor for the box’s owner’s own plight as the beautiful specks grow ever more tiny, more vulnerable against the vast, powerful water.

 

He feels inexplicably unhappy.

 

_“It is only a box. Don’t be silly.”_

 

But after that, he adds watching for golden specks on the beach to his daily routine.

 

* * *

 

 

The day the Mongolian delegation arrives is the day the nightmares stop.

 

_“I told you I’d be fine!”_

 

No one else would have known or had the authority to send a fully rigged, Mongolian-manned ship out for them.  Although, Wuji cannot understand why she would send mere soldiers when she knows they are no match for him.

 

But Wuji also cannot stop the dizzying feeling of relief. He laughs, and pretends that his relief is for their rescue, is for them now having a boat. But he knows this is a lie.

 

_“Told you.”_

 

Wuji doesn’t try to make excuses to himself for how he feels. He doesn't try to understand the why or how, nor try to figure out which of the conflicting claims to reality are truth and which are lies.   He even stops fighting the voice.

 

Because those matter not at all.

 

_“Idiot.”_

 

_You’re right- I am an idiot. When I'm with you I always feel like I know nothing. But I know I'm glad you’re safe. And I know **that** is all that matters._

 

And to that, oddly, the voice in his head, in his heart, has no retort.

 

 


	2. The Red Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many lampoon Wuji, who, in adaptation after adaptation, manages to make it all the way to the altar with Zhou Zhiruo, yet ultimately leaves her there. Here is what I imagine brings Wuji to the brink, and then back again.

Red.

 

Everywhere a sea of red: Fluttering sashes, shining table-cloths, delicate lanterns, flowers in full bloom, all in auspicious, dramatic crimson.

 

Perhaps it is the wine his high-spirited grandfather keeps insisting they share leading up to the wedding today, or the lack of sleep from days of preparation and welcoming guests, or, Wuji briefly entertains the possibility that he is ill.

 

Whatever the cause, he sees everything as if through a haze. He floats, smiling, through a cloud that lies over the flowers, the sashes, his room, even the guests, muting voices, colors and memory.

 

But if he is ill, he feels no pain. On the contrary, everything is as it is meant to be: His Wudang uncles arrived last week to Wuji’s joy and brought with them a gift from Tai Shifu that made him tear up. Buhui was with them, and shyly mentioned that she was pregnant to universal congratulations and much teasing for his 6th uncle.

 

The members of the Six Great sects are here in a show of support and gratitude. The proud Ming sect members play host in the highest of spirits. Excitement and recent military successes from Ming Sect has drowned out years of resentment and prejudice. Bringing Ming Sect back into the fold of Wulin is exactly what his Tai shifu dreamed Wuji would do.

 

Everyone says that this is the most important wedding the Wulin world has seen since the legendary Guo Jing married Huang Rong. It is not just a merging of two people but two (nay three, because Wuji is also of Wudang) sects. Even more, it is a symbol of unity for the previously fractious Han sects against their Mongolian oppressors. This is hope for the Han people.

 

Everyone whispers that this is the most romantic union since the hero Yang Guo married the mysterious Xiao Longnu.  Wuji is the dashing hero of Guang Ming Ding and WanAn Temple, head of the glorious Ming Sect, de-facto leader of the Wulin world. Zhiruo is the impossibly young, accomplished and blushingly beautiful head of Ermei. This is the flowering of their destiny, that started years ago from a fateful meeting of two orphaned children. It is a fairy tale come true.

 

Grandfather is ecstatic. After he made Wuji realize, dramatically, how much hinges on this marriage, Wuji has taken his words to heart and shows no sign of the hesitation he did before. His Wudang Uncles are bursting with pride, Yangxiao beams his approval, even Zhou Dian is starry-eyed with how beautiful Zhiruo is - everyone Wuji cares about is happy, how could Wuji be anything but happy? And if it is an oddly mirage-like, hazy, trembling sort of happiness, perhaps, Wuji thinks, this is what everyone calls prenuptial nerves?

 

He holds Zhiruo’s small, soft hand gently, smiles shyly at congratulations, and laughs at Zhou Dian’s lewd wedding night jokes.  He doesn’t feel inclined to think too much about the haze.

 

“Wuji, it’s nearly time, are you ready?”

 

Ying Yewang’s voice comes from just outside his room.

 

Holding a large red-knotted cloth with which he will ceremonially be linked to Zhiruo forever, Wuji rises to follow his uncle to the main hall.

 

He walks past red, twinned wedding candles, elaborate red wedding cups, red scrolls and red ribbons on the decorative plants.  His sleeve catches at a branch and as he untangles himself, he absently notes that even the bite mark on his hand is red.

 

Red.  Like blood from a stomach wound after a kamekazi sword move. Like eyes stubbornly filled with unshed tears.

 

His mind latches onto the color to the exclusion of other thoughts.

 

****

 

“Halt!”

 

Wuji freezes mid-bow, as does Zhiruo. They are nearly through their wedding ceremony.

 

He knows the voice, but he has so diligently not-thought about the first time they met, not-remembered her arch smiles, not-daydreamed about her teasing or tearful voice, not-relived her near-sacrifice for him, not-anything about her for so many days that it is like a physical blow to hear her voice.  

 

Her voice is the clear bell, sounding in his mind. Her word, like sunlight, slicing through the morning fog in his mind. Like the Yitian sword slicing cleanly through a golden box.

 

Epiphany: His cloud of non-thought was coping with his impossible, inevitable choice. But this changes everything.

 

His vision spins as sharp-edged memories return to cut him.

 

_“Forget me.”_

_“You didn’t have to bite me. I’ll never be able to forget you.”_

_“Forget me.”_

_“Zhang JiaoZhu, don’t forget I’m a scheming Mongolian Demoness so beware least I trick you again!”_

_“Forget me.”_

_“I can give everything up for you, why can’t you for me?”_

 

And in that instant, even before he looks up to see her walking towards him, tiny, vulnerable, yet surreally beautiful and confident. Before she demands he leave with her. Before Zhiruo nearly kills her. Even before all that, Wuji already realizes that he has failed.

 

The bite scar stings. The pain is a pointed sensation further pushing out the fog.

 

He has failed his own imperative to forget her.

 

Worry surges. _They’ll kill her!_

Then guilt. _Tai Shifu, Yifu and grandfather want this so much for me!_

He does not know what Zhaomin will say. He does not know what he will do. But he does know that even the jagged-edged feelings of worry and guilt feel good- better than his prior vague, red-tinged happiness.

 

They feel real. They feel true. He can breathe freely, painful as it is, again.

 

Relief transforms to determination. Another thing he knows for sure:

 

_If they want Zhaomin, they’ll have to go through me first._

 

Wuji straightens up- there is no going back to the fog.

 


	3. The Boat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written as a response after watching the Ep 36 preview for HSDS 2019- in the scene where ZM tearfully and fruitlessly tries to move the boat from the shore on Fire-Ice island. I thought the writers were twisting ZM to generate more angst (melodrama style), and I rewrote it (with a lot of help from my beta and suggestions from fans' opinion I've read in various blogs including spcnet, soompi and tieba) to better fit my ideal of a strong, confident ZM!
> 
> Inspired by Ep 36 preview for HSDS 2019 by Director of chinese drama HSDS 2019: 蒋家骏.

“Are you picking a fight with me? All I meant was…”

 

“I’m just reminding the esteemed Zhang Jiaozhu, the hero of Guang Ming Ding and leader of the Ming Sect, and that I am a Princess of the Mongolian Empire, and a spiteful, devious demoness.”

 

Wuji and Zhaomin stand there gazing at each other, barely a foot apart yet with a seemingly bottomless abyss between them.  

 

She moves, but gets just two steps before her vision spins- her dramatic blood loss of just a few days ago continues to plague her. She catches herself on Wuji, and in alarm, Wuji circles her waist to prop her up.

 

“Zhaomin!”

 

They freeze a moment, face-to-face, even closer now, his arms holding her up.

 

In spite of her pallor, Zhaomin’s face is flushed, upset, and her breaths are short, labored, her hair and clothing in disarray from days of being out here in the wild. A far cry from looking the part of the icy, beautiful princess she is. Yet there is, in her eyes and her stance and the set of her mouth, the same unyielding streak of pride and strength of will that continues to fight the inevitable.

 

In his contemplation, Wuji unconsciously moves close, mouth slightly parted….

 

Then he freezes again. What is he doing?

 

Feeling him freeze, Zhaomin, whose own eyes were slowly lidding, snaps her eyes open and fiercely, decisively closes the gap between them.

 

She kisses him.

 

First tenderly on his lower lip, then, as he opens his mouth in surprise, she slips a hand behind his neck and brings herself closer for a full kiss. Tongue on lips and teeth and slowly exploring and with a slight pull with her mouth so they stayed in full contact throughout.

 

Wuji has never been as aware of his mouth and lips and neck or, of her back, still arching into his arm, of her hand pressed softly against his neck. A surge of sensation in his entire body hits him as she runs her tongue over his.   His emotions are a tumult of shock and desire and confusion, but most of all, a singular amazement that it is Zhaomin he tastes, Zhaomin he holds. The same Zhaomin he fears and respects and who mercilessly teases him. The Zhaomin who confuses him with her smiles and her large, expressive eyes, who told everyone that she would die for him, then came so close to actually doing that. The Zhaomin who challenges him to think, really think about what he wants to do with his life…. Zhaomin, Zhaomin, Zhaomin.

 

Then he pulls back, abruptly, earning him an angry, hurt look from Zhaomin.

 

She scrambles to her feet without grace and a pang of guilt shoots through Wuji when he notices her wince, obviously having pulled at her wound.

 

Wuji stands there, arms feeling achingly empty. His jaws tighten with the effort not to pull her back, not to help her stand up… and certainly not to kiss her again. No, he can't let himself do this to Zhaomin.  She has a long future ahead of her that does not include him.  Haltingly but clearly, “You’re a princess of Yuan. I’m of the Ming Sect. We shouldn’t be so close. Once back on the mainland, we’ll still be enemies”

 

And that is as bald as Wuji has ever been, although his head spins with the effort and pain of his words.

 

Zhaomin wretches herself around and, without another word, with as much dignity as her limp would allow, stalks off toward the beach.

 

*****

 

Waves pull gently underfoot at the soft gray sand, and the sonorous, rhythmic push and pull of the waves act as counterpoint to the roar of tumultuous feelings for the people walking along the beach.

 

Zhaomin continues to walk ahead of Wuji.

 

Even after having come within a hair’s breadth of death, Zhaomin can still limp in a way that implies she is angry. But whether angry with him, angry with herself or angry at the world for being what it is, Wuji cannot tell.

 

Wuji follows her in a daze of his own emotions: Amazement, desire, delight, warring with guilt, and sorrow. And underneath it all a terribly gnawing worry that Zhaomin may never talk to him again after what he did, and guilt that that is what he is most upset about.

 

She stops.

 

Wuji pauses too, and sees that they have reached the small boat that was spared the flames of their larger boat. This boat is the only way for them back to mainland, although the trip will be precarious, given it is a long way on open water for a small vessel.

 

To Wuji’s surprise Zhaomin scrambles up to the boat and starts to heave at it.

 

“What are…”

 

“I hate this boat. I’m going to get rid of it.”

 

“But…”

 

“This is the only thing that ties us to rank and duty and debt and the past. I’m going to get rid of it and we need never think about those things again!”

 

“Zhaomin please, just get up, we can talk this through… “

 

He tries to pull her up- it’s clear in her state that she will not be able to move it and she is hurting herself trying. She’s not even thinking straight.

 

She shrugs off his arm raggedly, and steps back, clutching at her side but refusing to give in to the pain, eyes flashing.

 

“Push off the boat.” She orders.

 

Wuji looks at her. Really looks at her: Zhaomin is a mess of muddy sand in addition to everything else, but the wind and water and mud and traces of blood on her do nothing to quench the fire in her eye and confidence in her voice. She is still Zhaomin, unyieldingly, unrepentantly Zhaomin.

 

He hates how little he can offer her. After all she has done for him, he couldn’t keep her safe from the Persian Emissaries, he can’t promise her his affection, nor even neutrality when they return, she’s clearly angry and terribly upset and yet there is nothing he can do except to hardheartedly pretend he doesn’t care and stay away.

 

He can, however, easily move the boat.

 

Wuji turns and using much more of his nei gong than he needs, shoves the boat off the beach.  Under any other circumstances it would have been an awesome sight- Wuji's nei-going is second to none in all of Wulin, and it is nearly magic watching the boat be propelled, creating waves as it goes, clear into deeper water.

 

They stand there, both lost in thought, taking in the sight and sound of a creaking old boat now rocking gently in the waves.

 

She knows. He knows. And they both know that the other knows: It is a trivial matter for him to go and fetch the boat and maneuver it back in place.

 

They know she will turn away to let him do just that.

 

They know they will return to Mainland and go back to being enemies.

 

Zhaomin shakes with rage at Wuji’s maddening equanimity? Cynical, bitter voices in her head suggest: Why wouldn't he be calm? He has his beautiful Zhirou meimei, and virtuous Xiaozhao meimei and beloved Yinli biaomei, all waiting for him. If she were him, she too might shrug at the idea of one less troublesome, Mongolian princess from her life. Her eyes sting but she doesn’t give way to self-pity. She had made a fool of herself enough for one day, she plans to hang onto what dignity she has left.  

 

Besides, just because it’s impossible and perhaps he’s not even very interested doesn’t mean she feels any less than she feels. It doesn’t mean she will go without protest.

 

She turns to walk off, but before she leaves, without turning to face him, “I am not resigned. I will not go quietly Zhang Wuji, I wouldn’t. You’ll see.”

 

And then Wuji is left in the wide expanse of beach, stirring wind and lapping waves. And there he stands for another nearly incense length of time, listening for Zhaomin’s steps to fade, wanting to preserve the pretense for her, listening to make sure she has made it most of the way back to their camp safely before he goes into the water, in the semi-dark, to fetch the boat back.

 

And after the afterwards, after Zhaomin leaves, and Yinli dies, Zhirou is hurt, and Wuji and Xiexun poisoned. In the many sleepless nights after that, Wuji will relive the time he spent with Zhaomin on the beach. Wuji will wonder if Zhaomin was giving him a hint of her betrayal. He will wonder if he was an idiot not to realize what she would do. He will wonder if the kiss, the near-suicidal move, the seeming anger were all feints. And the confused hurt that follows those thoughts will steel him through an engagement and daily resolutions not to even think of Zhaomin again. Although his feelings will betray him again the next night when he wakes to anxiety. Zhaomin escaped on a very small boat, alone, with two heavy swords onboard, and gravely hurt. Then he will berate himself again for being a fool. Of course she has an escape plan, of course she positioned troops close by (even though she would have called on them to fight the Persians if she had?)… she's twice as clever as anyone else he knows, of course she has a plan… of course she is safe… of course.

 

And in the many terrible nights drifting on a raft, being captured by the Persians after, then making her way back to mainland incognito, afraid of being discovered by her many enemies before she can reach her subordinates, Zhaomin will look back to relive that same time and curse herself for being weak, for not striking before Zhiruo did, for allowing her feelings to distract her, and curse herself doubly for still being so weak that she worried about how Wuji will manage without her, trapped on that island with the cunning Zhiruo, and a dead cousin to grieve. But Wuji is amazingly skilled, and Xiexun, though blind, is not a fool. Of course he’ll protect Wuji,… of course he’ll stay safe…. of course.


	4. Good Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zhou Dian in the latest TV series is wonderful. Sometimes just for being loud and silly (e.g., his running jokes with Yangxiao) but sometimes, beyond entertaining, he is spot-on as a Shakespearean Fool (the comic fool character who is the one person who sees, and dares speak, the truth).

“Slap me Fanyao, I must be dreaming” Zhou Dian mutters. “But why, in all the Eighteen Levels of Hell, would I dream of Jiaozhu1 walking in the door, _holding hands_ with the demoness?”

 

All the Ming Sect members are stunned.

 

This is hutzpah of the highest order.

 

Zhou Dian remembers the not-wedding as if it were yesterday. (Who didn’t?) It was a good day!

* * *

 

Excitement has been mounting for weeks leading up to what everyone is calling the wedding of the decade, the century even!

 

Zhou Dian is not embarrassed to boast to everyone that Ming Sect’s Zhang Jiaozhu is effectively, after the now-legendary success at WanAn temple, the prodigy leader of all of Wulin.  

 

And with this wedding he will take home the startling beautiful and accomplished young Zhangmen2 of Er Mei as his bride.

 

Even a flurry of gossip from the dramatic (Zhu Yuanzhang calls them disastrous) events that led up to the wedding only fanned rather than dampened interest in the wedding.

 

_A catfight between the virtuous bride and the Mongolian temptress/demoness (ohhh!)_

_An illicit meeting between Zhang Jiaozhu and said demoness (gasp!)_

_A rainy day suicide attempt by the fiancée (oh no!)_

_A romantic rescue by the groom-to-be and a dramatic make-up including an accelerated wedding and a fleeing demoness (ahhh!)_

 

Zhou Dian knows that in life, the opposite of a Good Day is a Boring Day. And in spite of dirty looks he gets from the other Ming Sect members he goes around happily commenting that Jiaozhu’s eventful love life makes operas seem boring in contrast.

 

At some point, someone from Ming Sect realizes that these events actually draw interest and additional sympathy to their anti-Yuan cause.

 

_Han hero Zhang Wuji spurns Mongolian demoness for love of country and the virtuous Han beauty Zhou Zhiruo._

 

By selectively allowing some of the news to spread, along with a very broad invitation to the wedding, the more savvy members of Ming Sect's leadership manage to whip Wulin into a frenzy of anticipation for the event.

 

Every day for a week the Ming Sect halls are a procession of arriving dignitary guests with wedding gifts, each one showier than the last.

 

Yangxiao and Fanyao are in their element, meeting guests, drumming up excitement and support, overtly directing servants to dish out hospitality and receive gifts, covertly using the event as a show of Ming Sect’s power, building off Jiaozhu’s unrivalled prowess and status as savior of the Six Great Sects.

 

Their goal, repeated in various discussions at boring meetings that Zhou Dian only partially listens to, is to have the various Wulin sects step up and offer them funding as well as highly-skilled pugilists in the fight for Han-independence.

 

Maybe Zhou Dian just isn’t much into romance, but in spite of being a staunch supporter of Jiaozhu (“ _Jiaozhu is the only Jiaozhu I will ever accept_ ” has been Zhou Dian’s mantra since Guang Ming Ding) and enjoying the crazy drama, all the gushing about the “match made in heaven”, the starry-eyed girls drooling over how amazing Jiaozhu is, and the teenage trainee boys going mad over the gorgeous Zhou Zhangmen make his skin crawl.

 

And maybe Zhou Dian is projecting his own emotions but he gets the distinct feeling that Zhang Jiaozhu is not enjoying the feverish attention either.

 

If anything Jiaozhu looks slightly bewildered by the rapid changes of the last few weeks and the hordes of well wishers (most of whom he doesn’t even know) who have come to celebrate his wedding.

 

And then everything starts to really go wrong: The wedding day arrives. The hellish Mongolian demoness waltzes into the wedding ceremony, wearing a black dress and a mocking smile, then waltzes out again, taking Jiaozhu with her!

 

Everyone’s jaws drop. Half the guests gawk at Jiaozhu running out after the demoness. The other half stare at Zhou Zhangmen being left behind, stranded at the altar.

 

Zhou Zhangmen then, justifiably, runs out to kill the temptress.

 

(Fanyao attempts to, gently, stop the fight, but he is quickly blasted aside by Zhou Zhangmen in a hit that looked like it hurt!)

 

This is the point when Zhou Dian really starts to get into the day’s events: A wedding is a fine thing, but it’s not as good as a fight! And what a fight this turns out to be!

 

Jiaozhu jumps in and actually duels Zhou Zhangmen in defense of the demoness!

 

At this point Yangxiao looks like he has swallowed something extremely sour, while Ying Wang looks like he wants to join in the fight (it isn’t clear on which side, but if Zhou Dian had to bet, he’ll have put his money on “ _beating some sense into my grandson_ ”.)

 

Everyone is mesmerized: Two figures in wedding red, seconds from becoming man and wife just a few minutes before, are now locked in a high-powered battle.   Zhou Dian is pumped: This is _definitely_ better than just a wedding!

 

Zhou Dian takes a moment to marvel at how good Zhou Zhangmen has gotten since Guang Ming Ding. Her vicious moves accompanied by clawing actions are fast and relentless. When she scores a hit on the demoness, the crunch of bone can be heard by everyone and a few of the less worldly-wise pugilists actually gasp in shock.

 

Not only that, there are only a handful of people in the Wulin world who can withstand three stances from Jiaozhu in a one-on-one, and Jiaozhu is already into his fourth stance.

 

Zhou Dian does think however that Jiaozhu is very likely holding back. Zhou Dian isn’t what you might call an expert here but he’s still pretty certain that knocking out your fiancée on your almost-wedding day would be considered very bad taste.

 

When Jiaozhu actually _hits_ Zhou Zhangmen to beat her back from the demoness, Zhou Dian cheers with his usual abandon (earning him glares) but the rest of Ming Sect collectively wince in pained silence. Jiaozhu’s Wudang Uncles looked livid. Zhou Zhangmen… well, furious is an understatement. 

 

Jiaozhu even goes forward and carefully raises the demoness to her feet. And although he cannot look Zhou Zhangmen in the eyes, he makes it clear, by standing firmly between them, that he will not allow her to touch the demoness again.

 

Yangxiao and Fanyao (living up to their twinned names as Left and Right Hand of the Ming Sect respectively) actually close their eyes in unison. Apparently watching this particular shit show was getting to be too much even for them.

 

Zhou Dian, though, is busy trying to decide if Zhou Zhangmen has managed the impossible and actually fought Jiaozhu into a draw or even a win.

 

His reasoning? Ostensibly she is failing to kill her target. However, the claw wound on the demoness is very deep and is potentially poisoned. Zhou Dian gives it a 20-30% chance that the demoness will die of it. If the demoness actually dies, Zhou Dian decides with a firm nod, he would consider Zhou Zhangmen to actually have won the fight!

 

Belatedly he remembers that if so, it wouldn’t be the first fight Jiaozhu has lost to Zhou Zhangmen.

 

At Guang Ming Ding, Jiaozhu beat the shit out of the Six Great Sects and sent them home crying to their mothers… all except the then vastly less experienced (but infinitely more beautiful) Zhou Zhirou, who actually managed to stick the Yitian sword into Jiaozhu, pretty much without a fight.

 

These last few days, everyone has been claiming that they _knew_ that Jiaozhu was going to marry Zhou Zhangmen from that moment on. What other explanation could there be for Jiaozhu to have neither retaliated nor dodged the sword thrust? Even more telling, even taking the hit full-force of Yitian, Jiaozhu didn’t die which only goes to show that Zhou Zhangmen was in love with him even then.

 

“ _How romantic!_ ” “ _It was love!_ ”

 

Honestly, Zhou Dian doesn’t get it. What is so romantic about just standing there, getting stuck through the chest by Yitian rather than ducking? And if you really liked someone wouldn’t you find a way not to nearly kill him? Eventually he just shrugs and pegs it as yet another inexplicable thing about “romance”, of which, he admits cheerfully, his experience is non-existent.

 

In the meantime, this particular fight situation is getting less and less romantic by the minute: Zhou Zhangmen issues her ultimatum. The demoness manages to stumble away without resistance (no one is quite sure if they actually want her to be gone or stay). Most dramatically, Jiaozhu whispers three words in apology to Zhou Zhangmen before he takes off, running wildly after the demoness.

 

Pandemonium ensues.

 

Zhou Zhangmen declares eternal enmity with Jiaozhu and even Zhou Dian keeps quiet for a difference. There is then a rush of Ming Sect members falling all over themselves to apologise to the guests.

 

Tedious, hushed discussions follow about how to contain the disaster.

 

But Zhou Dian is particularly unhappy when Zhu Yuanzhang says that Jiaozhu is “finished politically”, whatever that means. Zhou Dian just doesn’t like the look on Yuanzhang’s face when he says it and is willing to back his dislike up with his fists.

 

After Yangxiao breaks up that particular fight, he orders Zhou Dian back to his room. Zhou Dian is happy to oblige after getting the satisfaction of punching Zhu Yuanzhang once. That man has had it coming for a while now. Yuanzhang disagrees with Jiaozhu’s policies around no killing of innocent bystanders, but instead of saying so, he pretends to agree and then constantly makes annoying insinuations about Jiaozhu behind his back. Only Jiaozhu’s strict no-in-fighting policy (and Yangxiao’s watchful eyes) keep Zhou Dian from giving Yuanzhang a piece of his mind more often.

 

Still, all in all, he decides, it’s been a pretty good day.

 

Zhou Dian will subsequently have reason to question that conclusion, since no one hears from or sees Jiaozhu for weeks after his dramatic departure: Weeks in which the Ming sect members fret and snap at one another in frustration and worry.

* * *

And here she is now, bold as brass, walking in through the front doors of Ming Sect in broad daylight, alive, flushed with a happy smile and, most amazingly, _holding their Jiaozhu’s hand_ as if it were the most natural thing in the world!

 

Jiaozhu is not helping either. His face carries an expression Zhou Dian has to take a moment to identify.

 

Unguarded. Earnestly happy.

 

It is not an expression Zhou Dian has not seen on Jiaozhu’s face for a long time, not even in the time leading up to the not-wedding.

 

Everyone instinctively bows and welcomes Jiaozhu back. But after the last few weeks of chaos and worry, all the Ming sect members are at the end of their tether and there is an air of barely restrained incredulity at _her_ presence.

 

Zhao Dian is, naturally, the first to react.

 

He walks up and tries to pinch _her_ in the arm to see if she’s real or really a figment of his imagination.

 

Wuji smoothly moves to put himself between Zhou Dian and her. His posture is defensive but his voice is light-hearted and he is smiling.   Apparently he’s still high from whatever it is that the demoness has been feeding him.

 

“Zhou Dian…”

 

Zhou Dian stares, “Jiaozhu… so you can see her too? So this really is the demoness with you? I’m not dreaming?”

 

“Perceptive as always.” _She_ comments drily.

 

Jiaozhu casts her a pleading _please-not-now_ look. And to everyone’s surprise she good-naturedly (well, as good-naturedly as one can imagine on her proud face) rolls her eyes in response but doesn’t say anything more.

 

Then, everything happens at once.

 

Yixiao glares at Zhaomin’s flippant words “Didn’t you hear? We welcomed our Jiaozhu, and not you!”

 

Ying Wang thunders “Jiaozhu… Wuji, as your grandfather, I would like to talk to you. Now. In private.”

 

Others are more direct “YOU are NOT welcome here.”

 

There is a chorus of unhappy sounds and a few calls of “Demoness!” and “Shameless hussy!” and other less polite words yet.

 

Apparently she isn’t one to stand down in a direct confrontation either. She arcs an elegant eyebrow and holds her chin up in disdain, refusing to dignify their ‘welcome’ with a response.

 

“Silence.” Jiaozhu's voice is surprisingly authoritative- he seldom leans on his rank, but he does so now. He does not raise his voice, but he doesn't need to.  No one can mistake his tone for anything but a command from Ming Sect’s Jiaozhu.

 

He keeps a firm clasp on the demoness' hand and shifts her slightly, so that he is now bodily between her and most of his subordinates. His stance is now wary- which is itself shocking, would Jiaozhu really fight _them_ to protect _her_?

 

Jiaozhu addresses his grandfather first “Waigong3 , I am always happy to talk with you about anything you would like, but please allow me to settle Miss Zhao, my _guest_ , first.”

 

He emphasizes the word guest.

 

This leads to more protests and hissing.

 

Jiaozhu holds up his free hand. The protests die down.

 

He explains that _Miss Zhao_ (he looks pointedly at Zhou Dian) is no longer aligned with the Yuan Empire.

 

“She is under my personal protection. I would consider any discourtesy to her, to be one to myself.”

 

Zhou Dian cannot resist saying the first thing that comes to his head- “Jiaozhu, tell me I’m hallucinating! Because I can't possibly have heard you correctly about the demoness.”

 

Jiaozhu says nothing for a moment but stares down Zhou Dian, who relents.“I meant Miss Zhao.”

 

Other, more persuasive voices chime in “Jiaozhu, countless Ming Sect brothers have been slaughtered by her father. Her poison and her lies have driven the Six sects, now our allies, to near total defeat. How can we allow her to enter here? What do you think fraternizing with her would do to our troops’ morale?”

 

Jiaozhu nods once, then says clearly, “Noted. I will account to the Ming Sect members for this. I’ll reassure them and personally guarantee her full allegiance switch.”

 

The demoness ( _demoness, demoness, demoness, I can call her what I want in my head!_ ) stands there, unruffled, as if they were talking about the weather rather than about killing her.

 

Zhou Dian huffs at her arrogance.

 

“Now if you’ll excuse us, I will see Miss Zhao to her quarters and we can continue this discussion _afterward_.”

 

No one misses the stiff formality in Jiaozhu’s words and his definitive “afterward.”

 

Nor can they ignore the protective way he has his other hand now around her waist. He is reminding them both of their manners and who it is personally offering protection to this apparently much-cherished guest.

 

Ming Sect members continue to grumble, but Yang Zuoshi, who has been quietly watchful the entire time, finally steps in.

 

“Silence! Did you not hear Jiaozhu? Or are we so pathetic and ungrateful that we have already forgotten who it is who nearly gave his life to save our own sorry lives? Not a single one of us would be here today if not for Jiaozhu.”

 

He glares at everyone.

 

 _Point_ , decides Zhou Dian, albeit a little unhappily.

 

“Did we or did we not swear to obey him? We can joke and laugh all we want amongst ourselves but don’t forget our pledge of obedience and respect to Jiaozhu.”

 

Zhou Dian considers himself as chivalrous as anyone with twice his manners and so he, along with everyone at Ming Sect, bows and mutters words of (albeit reluctant) welcome, as Jiaozhu leads the demoness, both of them straight-backed with gazes held high, straight down the center of the courtyard toward the guest quarters.

 

Zhou Dian cannot help a moment of near-admiration: They do look like a good couple, a mix of youthful energy yet cool confidence in every step. Zhou Dian also cannot help noticing how alive and expressive Jiaozhu’s eyes are, as Jiaozhu's gaze follows the demoness' every movement.

 

As the demoness passes Zhu Yuanzhang, she stops to say in a low but distinct voice that is clearly meant to be heard by all.

 

“Master Zhu, I have heard so much about you! I look forward to getting to see, first-hand, your _great contributions to the People_ and _loyal service to Zhang Jiaozhu_.”

 

It sounds very much like a threat. It sends a pleasant shiver down Zhou Dian’s back.

 

He hadn’t considered that angle before: Even amongst the tough rebel Ming Sect members, Zhu Yuanzhang was the extreme on pushing for battle tactics that will secure quick victory no matter the civilian cost.

 

_Perhaps this means that there is going to be a fight here at last! Maybe I can’t fight with Zhu Yuanzhang but I bet the demoness (no, no Miss Zhao) can!_

 

This cheers him up considerably. Zhou Dian may not approve of Miss Zhao but he knows dangerous when he sees it, and Miss Zhao is very, very dangerous.

 

Not just because she’s a wily fox, but just look at the effect she has had on Jiaozhu in just a few weeks! Zhou Dian has never seen Jiaozhu stand his ground so firmly on anything before.

 

Dangerous indeed.

 

And if Miss Zhao is somehow onto Zhu Yuanzhang's tricks, then Zhou Dian would bet his grandmother’s life, that the old man is in for the fight of his life.

 

Perhaps a fight _for_ his life!

 

Zhou Dian almost rubs his hands in glee. In retrospect, he realizes that there hasn’t been a boring moment for Jiaozhu, for any of them, since Miss Zhao's appearance at Liu Manor.  Shaolin, Wudang, WanAn temple... who knows? Zhou Dian thinks happily as he watches Jiaozhu carry Miss Zhao up the stairs when it looks like she is struggling with them, both smiling shyly. Good days might be here to stay!

 

Translations:

  1. Jiaozhu: Leader of the sect
  2. Zhangmen: Head of a martial arts school
  3. Waigong: Maternal grandfather




	5. The Art of Storytelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Wuji searches for Minmin in Mongolia, he meets a storyteller, hears a story, tells a story and learns something about himself, about Minmin and the art of story-telling.
> 
> I wondered in this version of the drama, how Wuji ever found Minmin in the huge lands that is Mongolia, and this plot bunny finally took me by the ears and wouldn’t let me sleep till it got out!

“Once upon a time, in an island far, far away, there ventured a boat carrying our Hero and his fellow adventurers.”

 

Wuji is in a teahouse in Ikh Khuree, a large town in Western Mongolia.

 

“Our Hero is the head of a Rebel army and is strong beyond belief. But when our story starts, our Hero is heartsick. For his God-father has been taken captive by the Golden Flower Hag…”

 

There is a storyteller in the teahouse where he has chosen to stop for a drink and rest before he goes on his way again. Go on to his endless search, as he has for the last five years.

 

“Our Hero is as kind and handsome as he is strong and all four of the women on the boat are in love with him. His Disfigured, Mad Cousin, the Lovely but Evil Princess of the Empire the Hero is rebelling against, the Innocent Maid with the Golden voice, and the Virtuous Heroine.”

 

Storytellers are an old tradition. They are the rare literate amongst the commoners, and valued highly for their willingness to take stories they have heard or read and weave them into a night or even several nights’ worth of spell-binding narrative.  

 

The best ones mime the story: They gnash their teeth, feint fainting, give good advice in gravelly voices and sometimes they even play the Er-hu and sing as one of their characters.

 

This particular story has been a popular one for several years now.

 

Somehow, somewhere, some wandering storyteller picks up enough of Wuji’s own story, of his misadventures, and has turned it into a tale of high adventure, complete with a happy ending. Of sorts.

 

Unlike the real story.

 

In the real story, Wuji gets Minmin nearly beheaded, her father is dishonorably killed under a parley flag, and, at the last, when Minmin issues her ultimatum to leave with her or stay, Wuji stayed.   In the real story, Wuji is disenchanted and betrayed by his hereto brothers. In the real story, Wuji now wanders around the grassy plains of Mongolia searching. Searching for a hint, a shadow, an echo, of _her_.

 

It has been five long years since he left Ming sect, and he has gone back to Han lands, now and again to see his Tai shifu, his Wudang uncles, Buhui and her little ones. He goes back to visit his Yifu at his Monastery. But mostly he travels, dressed roughly, incognito, searching.

 

Wuji is only half listening to the story, when something about it catches his attention.

 

“The Evil Princess is Fair to look upon, Fairer in fact than even the Virtuous Heroine. She tries to seduce our Hero. She touches his hand and tricks him into calling her “Good sister”, once she even tries to kiss him. But our Hero is adamant- he coldly tells her that they are Enemies and will always be.”

 

Wuji feels a jolt and frowns, this is new.

 

How could anyone have known that?

 

Or is his story so clichéd that even a poor, old storyteller making up the details can guess?

 

He smiles ruefully at his wine cup.

 

Sometimes truth feels like a parody of fiction. Sometimes what actually happened is even more ridiculously foolish than the storytellers can ever make up. If they ever told the truth of his story, people wouldn’t love Heroes nor hate Evil Princesses, and where would the fun be in that?

 

“But, moments before the wedding concludes, the Evil Princess comes in and kidnaps the Groom by showing him a single strand of Golden Hair!”

 

It is always a little surreal listening to his story spun to be nearly unrecognizable. Each storyteller has his own variant, and usually Wuji can only bear to listen to a little and has to leave. Somehow this version has captured his attention. Oh the storyteller gets a lot wrong, as is always the case, but he occasionally captures just the right detail here and there. Those are enough to tug at Wuji’s memory and he slips into revelry.

 

When the storyteller gets to the part of Yifu turning to Buddha, the storyteller’s prayerful stance makes Wuji tear up in memory.

 

Then, abruptly, the storyteller moves onto a part of the story that Wuji has never heard any other storyteller tell.

 

“Then the Hero instructs the Disfigured Monk, his Right-Hand, to go and pretend to save the Evil Princess from her Disgrace and her Beheading.”

 

Wuji looks up, and his head spins, he has, unnoticed, had a cup too many, but he still manages a sharp look at the storyteller.

 

The old storyteller, oblivious to Wuji’s gaze, drops his voice in a conspiratorial whisper and asks his audience. “But why would he do that you ask me? Why save the Evil Princess? Why not let her die and save himself the trouble?”

 

Then the storyteller raises a finger in revelation.

 

“Because the Hero and Heroine of the Rebellion have a grand vision! The Rebellion has long planned to overthrow the King, the Evil Princess’ father. They know that the Evil Princess has now no hope, and that by pretending to be her Friend, by rescuing her, she might be tricked into allowing them to kill her father.”

 

Wuji shakes his head.

 

_That’s not how it happened. I didn’t… Zhirou wasn’t…_

 

“Then the righteous Hero jumps up and slays the King. The Rebellion is triumphant! The Evil Princess, horrified that this is all a ploy, flees, afraid for her own life and the Hero and the Heroine live Happily…”

 

_No, no, no, NO!_

 

Before he can stop himself, before he ever registers what has happened, Wuji has slammed his cup onto the table and finds himself standing, in the middle of the crowded teahouse, at the center of everyone’s attention.

 

Apparently his last few thoughts were shouted out-loud.

 

Everyone is looking at him curiously: This tall, handsome stranger who spoke with an accent that clearly wasn’t local and seemed like a nice boy, but had just abruptly interrupted their evening entertainment.

 

Wuji stammers, but whether from the wine or from inexplicable waves of fury and guilt and regret swelling in him, he doesn’t know “That’s… that’s not how it went!”

 

The storyteller walks over to Wuji and his voice is patient. He doesn’t seem at all fazed by being interrupted. Wuji idly thinks that storytellers in teahouses must see all sorts in their trade.

 

“And you think you know better than me because…?”

 

“I… I was there. I saw it happen. She wasn’t… I … he didn’t… “

 

“Well! If you don’t think that’s the right story, would YOU like to tell the story?”

 

“No, it’s just not true….”

 

“Well, everyone what say you? This fine young man tells us he has the true story. I’ve told this story many times so perhaps it is time for something new! What say you we give him a chance to tell his version of the story?”

 

Everyone starts to mutter; there is an excited buzz. It is a good story and well known locally, but they’ve mostly heard it before. It’s not every day someone interrupts the storyteller and wants to tell another version of the story

 

“Tell us young man!”

 

“Do a good job and your wine’s on us!”

 

“Mommy, mommy I want to hear his story!”

 

Wuji is quite drunk, he tells himself that’s why he doesn’t just leave.

 

That and the fact that it hurts.

 

Hurts to know that everyone continues to blame _her_ , to accuse _her_ for all the mistakes that _he_ has made.

 

That for all the grief he caused, for all the times he let her down, Wuji is the Hero. For all her bravery and loyalty and unwavering principles, Minmin is the Evil Princess.

 

“I mean you’re right. She is mean and she is powerful and she is a terrifying enemy.   Your Evil Princess I mean. Only she isn’t evil, not really.   She is desperately loyal and terribly clever and she could make fun of anything, see the humor in any situation!”  

 

_Minmin laughing at him: What’s the point in being serious all the time? If you can’t do anything about it, the least you can do is make fun of it._

 

The audience looks on blankly at his rush of words.

 

“And she was really beautiful and you’re right she did try to seduce him, but not how you think, not why you think. She just didn’t care what the world thought, she only cared that she loved him and wanted him to love her back.”

 

_Minmin slyly holding his hand, laughing that his ears are red down to his face. Minmin magnificently, breezily, easily dismissing what the entire world may or may not say or think about her actions._

 

“She really did you know? Love him I mean. She gave him a pin with a pearl and a golden box. She nearly gave her life for him. She even bit him and poisoned the wound!”

 

The audience gasps.

 

“No, no, not like that! She did it because she wanted him to remember her forever!”

 

_Minmin’s eyes drilling into his. So you can’t ever forget me. Not ever._

 

He meets skeptical looks from everyone, except the storyteller who only looks at him with an odd intensity.

 

“He didn’t mean to kill her father, he didn’t plan to use her, but that’s what happened and it is his fault, so you’re right. He used her, he killed her father.”

 

_Minmin weeping over her father’s corpse._

 

“And when, even after all that, he still chose wrong. When he didn’t follow her although she told him that it was his last chance, she walked away. She told him that just as she could love him without hesitation, without reservation before, so now could she leave him without a backward glance.”

 

_Minmin walking away leading her horse, she even rejected his wooden hairpin gift to her, her laughter a bitter, disappointed sound._

 

“She didn’t run away in fear! She walked out in righteous fury! She walked out because the Hero had let her down too many times! She was right. The Hero was the fool. The Evil Princess was the real hero.”

 

The audience members look at each other in confusion.

 

For an entire incense length of time, he has been stammering and hardly anyone can make head or tail of the story that seems to jump from one random detail to another without coherence or linkage.

 

Plus the details mess with the clarity of the original story. It is unclear whom they are supposed to like and whom they are supposed to boo at in the new story.

 

He is a terrible storyteller.

 

And then to his own chagrin, and to the embarrassment of the entire teahouse, Wuji suddenly cannot find any more words. His words seem to have choked him and for a moment Wuji thinks he might just start to cry.

 

He struggles a moment more, then gives up and turns to leave, but the storyteller, who really seems to be a good sort, pulls him aside to his own table and dismisses his audience to go back to their meals.

 

The storyteller returns to the table, and even pours him a cup of tea.

 

“Have some, it’s hard on the throat if you don’t know how! This should help.”

 

“It’s ok! Really! Not everyone is cut out to do story telling. Actually, you’re not _that_ bad. I particularly like the detail you threw in at the end. How did you put it? ‘Just as I could love you without hesitation, without reservation then, so now can I leave you without a backward glance.’? That has a nice ring to it!”

 

“That what she actually said. I didn’t make it up. It was always her.”

 

“But you’re not a bad storyteller in any case…”

 

“Sir, I apologize. This has been dreadfully rude of me and you have been very kind. But I’m… I’m not upset about the story… It’s me… it’s what I… maybe it is about the story. It’s about how many wrongs remain un-atoned for, how many important words remain unsaid in the story.”

 

“Ah, un-said words and un-atoned for sins can be terrible things. Still, as long as the characters haven’t died, the story isn’t over! The words can still be spoken, atonement attained!”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Oh no no, not perhaps! For sure! There’s always ‘afterward’ or ‘and then’ and in the best stories there’s always a twist at the end!”

 

“A twist?”

 

“Yes, a twist! You know, when you find out that the murderer isn’t who you thought it was? Or that the ugly hag is really a fairy in disguise? Or that the thing you thought was a curse was really a blessing?”

 

“A twist…” Wuji doesn’t see where this is going.

 

“All the best stories have those! And I’ll tell you a secret since you seem like such an earnest young man.”

 

And here the storyteller leans forward and whispers, “The twist isn’t actually much of a surprise. In fact it can’t EVER be a true surprise.”

 

“It can’t?”

 

“No, no, the audience doesn’t really want a surprise.”

 

“Then, what is a twist?”

 

“A twist is when the hero realizes something that was in the story the whole time. The twist is when the hero has a revelation about himself, about some fundamental truth, that was already there, and if only the hero (and the audience) was paying close enough attention to the right things, he (and they) would have known from the very start!”

 

“You see it wouldn’t be fun and it wouldn’t be fair to just hide all the facts, and then surprise the audience with something totally unrelated at the end of the story. That’s not how story-telling works. You need to drop little hints. You need to plant little ideas. So that when the twist comes everyone thinks ‘Ah! Now it all makes sense!’ and they can say, ‘I knew it! I could tell from act two that this was going to happen!’ “

 

The storyteller claps Wuji on back.

 

“You’ll see, there’s a reason for everything.”

 

Then his smile turns just a little sly.

 

“Do you like my story?”

 

“I… I’m afraid it made me rather angry.”

 

“But you found it interesting enough to stay for it.”

 

“You tell the story well, and you have a good head for details.”

 

“Did you know that I’m not the person who wrote the story? This version is actually something someone else wrote, and that person pays me to tell the story.”

 

In spite of his own misery, Wuji looks up curiously.

 

“The writer is a very beautiful lady and has paid me each year for the last five years to go around the teahouses in all of Mongolia to tell this exact story.”

 

Wuji feels something inside him snap. As if deep ice from a long, cold winter is cracking from spring’s irresistible thaw.  

 

The storyteller pours himself a cup of tea.

 

“She is very exacting. She makes me repeat exact phrases and details, and even practice certain actions for particular scenes.”

 

Wuji looks in amazement, as the storyteller seems to transform before his eyes.

 

_You know nothing Zhang Wuji!_

 

What was a simple bent, old man now seems taller to Wuji. As he smiles, his craggy lines that had made him seem simple and old before, now seem to make him wise and knowing, and maybe even a little bit amused.

 

“She believes that one day I will meet a young man who would jump up and tell me that the story is not true.”

 

The little crack in the ice widens, water starts to pour out of it and soon it is a raging waterfall of hope.

 

“She believes that this young man will want to tell a different story and that he will defend the Princess in the story. ”

 

_You’re an idiot!_

 

“She is very specific what the young man might include in his story: A hairpin with a pearl, a blue handkerchief, or maybe a golden box.”

 

Wuji feels the rush of years of frozen, unsaid words, suppressed memories suddenly released from him. He is light-headed from the experience.

 

“And she tells me that when I meet this young man, I am to give him this.”

 

The storyteller holds out his fist face down.

 

Then, like a fairy with a conjuring spell, he turns open the fist and lying there in his wrinkled palm, is a familiar golden pin, complete with the pearl.

 

Wuji stares at the pin for a moment. Then, scarcely able to believe it, he shakily extends his hand and picks up the pin. He moves slowly, tenderly, as if afraid that any fast movement would scare it away, like it was a wild animal, or that it will vanish like the mirages of her he has been chasing, like the dreams of her he has woken up from, weeping.

 

The pin feels cool to his touch. It doesn’t disappear.

 

Wuji barely breathes as he careful, very carefully, and very slowly, takes the pearl out from its setting.

 

He finds, inside, a little piece of rolled up paper.

 

It is a map.

 

Wuji stares at it.

_[He holds out the golden pin in he pulled out from her hair and smiles at her]_

_My lady, do you want to keep fighting?_

_[He sticks the pin into her hair.]_

_Take it back; I don’t want anything from you!_

_[She beams slyly]_

_Except my Black Jade balm? Except the antidote for the Seven Flowers, Seven Worms poison? Don’t you want those anymore?_

_[He looks askance but cannot deny it. She sticks the pin back into his head.]_

_Well then, keep this safe! I don’t ever take backs gifts I give._

 

_[He fingers the pin, in his room, recalling their meeting in Liu Manor.]_

_[When she leaves. She takes the pin back. Without telling him, without mentioning it. When he comes back to his room and discovers it gone, it hits him harder than he expects. She is telling him that she is done. That she is taking back all the things she ever gifted him.]_

 

Wuji doesn’t know how long he stands there just staring at the tiny, precious pin and map, but when he shakes himself back to reality, he sees that the storyteller has packed up his wares (a box for his musical instruments, a flag that advertises his services, and a bowl that he uses to collect tips from his audience) and is about to leave.

 

“Wait, stop! I haven’t thanked you yet! This is beyond…”

 

“Oh no, no need to young man. The Lady has paid me more than generously all these years, and truth be told, I’ve always felt a little sorry going back year after year with the bad news that I haven’t found her young man. You made my day young man! And I wish you and her all the best from here!”

 

“But… what if I didn’t stand up? I didn’t mean to. What if you never found me?”

 

“You know? I asked her that too, and she told me that if the young man never stood up, never contradicted me, never searched for her, then she’ll know that it was, after all, her own fault.”

 

The storyteller looks straight at Wuji when he says “Her own fault for falling in love with the wrong man.”

 

Wuji’s breath catches. The breadth and depth of Minmin’s hopes and fears open up before him.

 

While he stands there, the storyteller starts to leave again.

 

Wuji catches his arm, “But where are you going?”

 

“I’m off to tell other stories I suppose. I don’t think this one needs telling anymore. And honestly, five years is a long time to keep to one exact script. Although it was a good story for a long while.”

 

“Where will you find another story?”

 

The storyteller laughs.

 

“You don’t need to find stories, my young hero, stories are everywhere and every person, every town, and every time has dozens of stories. My job is to hear stories and then tell the stories in a way that helps people find the hope, make the sense, see the purpose in an often brutal, senseless, purposeless world. And if I happen to make them laugh and make them cry along the way, all the better!”

 

And with that, the storyteller bows, then winks at Wuji and turning, makes his slow meandering way between the teahouse patrons, out of the story.


	6. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wuji’s reactive, often hesitant, take on relationships is one of the key points that has drawn viewers’/readers’ frustration, particularly when contrasted to Zhaomin’s own decisive, fearless actions. Here I re-imagine the scene after the not-wedding where, in the 2019 drama version, he holds a hurt Zhaomin,and is clearly distressed by her injuries but chooses only to close his eyes and avert his face in some silent struggle.

In many ways, it is the most awkward, some would say shameful, situation imaginable.

 

Dressed in crimson wedding robes, hiding out after having escaped from the most talked-about wedding in Wulin (his _own_ wedding to be specific), holding a woman in his arms who was very, very much NOT his bride.

 

Wuji knows that no one - from his Tai Shifu down to Zhou Dian - would approve. As a matter of fact he would be surprised if they are not all currently livid with anger and acute embarrassment over his behavior.

 

In spite of the mess, Wuji knows that he had good reason - he couldn’t have ignored the strand of his Yifu’s hair she held. Then, after Zhiruo injured her, he couldn’t have let Zhaomin die. Holding her as she fell asleep after he sucked the poison from her wound was also not the problem.

 

It would all be irregular but entirely above board… if he had a clear conscience.

 

But his conscience is not clear.

 

In fact, he is guilty of the most vicious of interpretations of his actions: He left his bride at the altar for another woman.

 

Wuji frowns and closes his eyes, averting them from the figure in his arms.  

 

As if in doing so he can claim the moral high ground of doing all he did only to save his Yifu.

 

As if then he can avoid feeling the rising tide of joy in his belly.

 

As if then he can ignore how wonderful the small, warm figure cradled in his arms, softly sleeping now, occasionally shifting for comfort, feels.

 

As if then he can un-learn how well she fits in the crook of his arm, un-feel the intense protectiveness welling up in him as he feels her curl up tighter against him, un-realize how liberated he feels out here with her, after weeks of oppressive expectations and impossible choices.

 

He knows he is giving credibility to the ugliest of the rumors circulating about him and Zhaomin.

 

“The Mongolian demoness has been trying to seduce Zhang Jiaozhu.”

 

“She ran away from home to throw herself at him even knowing that he’s to marry Zhou Zhangmen. Shameless!”

 

He cringes at the memory of what he has overheard over the last few weeks. Not so much because of the crude, cruel words, but from shame.

 

Shame that he has failed Zhaomin. Shame that he has hurt her.

 

That Wuji, for all his being considered the savior of the Six Sects and leader of Wulin, didn’t immediately smack down Fanyao’s idea to exchange her life for that of the Yuan Emperor.

 

He didn’t speak out against Ming sect members who wanted to burn her at the stake for her father’s deeds.

 

That Wuji had nearly even taken her life for a crime he is unsure Zhaomin is guilty of. The same life Zhaomin had put on the line for him on Snake Island.

 

Shame was not in the scandal of their relationship, nor about the whispers of “traitor” and “whore” that surely now follow his and her names.

 

Shame was not even about him walking out on a near-marriage that he now knows would only have grown to be a burden to Zhirou and himself.

No, true shame was that he had let down, didn’t trust, didn’t give his all to someone who stood up for him time and again against foes and ‘friends’, didn’t speak up for someone who shared all her dreams with him, who said she would be willing to die for him, then had nearly done just that.

 

The last few weeks were terrible partly because even as everyone sang the praises of the virtuous Zhirou and his heroic self, they felt equally free to call Zhaomin “demoness”, “harlot” and worse things.

 

Brilliant Zhaomin had ignorant women use her as an example of how wanton and degenerate the Yuan Empire has become, setting her up as the antithesis of themselves as virtuous Han women.

 

Zhaomin, who was braver than ten men and unbending in her principles, had scum leer at her physical beauty behind her back, call her ‘easy,’ joke at all the carnal things they would force her to do if they ever caught her.

 

Wuji knew all these people were his guests. He knew they all thought disparaging Zhaomin, and by proxy the Yuan, was a show of support for the Ming Sect and for his wedding with Zhiruo.

 

Support for himself.

 

It nauseated him.

 

The constant pretense that it didn’t bother him in the face of stomach-churning comments, the wine he drank with those same people who sprouted hate-driven untruths made him sick.

 

His complicit silence made him their accomplice, made it seem like he agreed with them.

 

And that shamed him more than any suspected impropriety he could be accused of now ever could.

 

He should have known better.

 

Should have known because this was the exact sort of prejudice and hatred that had hounded his mother.

 

Even after both his parents were forced into suicide people still shook their heads and tutted over her. “Cuishan was Zhang SanFeng’s favorite disciple! Too bad the demonic sect’s temptress got her claws into him. Such a shame!”

 

His words even just earlier in the day come back to haunt him

 

_“If you hoped that I saved you because I care for you, then you should give up right now.”_

_“I no longer even care about your life.”_

 

All that to someone who loved him with all her heart. 

 

And after all he had said and done, still she held true.

 

_“Even if I lose you, I would still be at peace with my decisions.”_

***

 

Zhaomin shifts, in pain, against him.

 

Wuji very slowly and gently adjusts his arm so that she can lie more comfortably against him.

 

She seems small, precious and vulnerable lying there, sweat-drenched, with her shoulder nearly ripped out.

 

The woman he once told “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” just days before he let her get poisoned and thrown into the sea.

 

Wuji vows to himself that he will not allow their ending to be the same as his parents’.

 

Perhaps they will walk together through grasslands and wander the world. Perhaps their future will diverge and they will each go their own way. Perhaps someday they will face each other across the battle-field as foes.

 

But in the multitude of possible futures, he promises himself that he will not be a coward nor a liar in any one of them.  He will not, any longer, do anything he will be ashamed of, no matter what people say, what people think.

 

He owes her that much.

 


End file.
